


dr. feelgood

by frostedlipstick



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: A disgusting amount of commas, Dubious Consent, F/M, Heavy Petting, Knifeplay, Oral Sex, Patrick is a creeper, Periods, Probably the world's longest drabble, hematolagnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 11:17:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12107577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostedlipstick/pseuds/frostedlipstick
Summary: You just wanted to get out the front entrance. Was that too much to ask?





	dr. feelgood

**Author's Note:**

> what am i DOING with my life.
> 
> thank god owen doesn't know how to use the internet. this wasn't written for any particular reason, i've just seen IT 3 times (and intend to see it as many more times as i can) and i'm absolutely obsessed with everything... but especially the bowers gang. stupid sexy villains.
> 
> i chose patrick to write because he's so skin-crawlingly weird. let me know if i should change that archive warning. preface is that you just want to leave school for the day but he has other ideas.  
> also apologies if this sucks, i haven't wrote a full fic in forever. i also have no idea how knives work.
> 
> the title is the mötley crüe song, obviously.

You sighed, winding your way through the throng of kids as you clutched your books to your chest, keeping your head down. Fridays were both the joy and bane of your existence; the tantalising promise of freedom in the last ten minutes of History were always nicer than the chaos of the rush-hour and the two days of doing nothing at home. The front entrance glowed at the end of the corridor like some heavenly portal as you felt an elbow collide into your ribs, grimacing as Richie Tozier ran past you with a yell of "Hey, Stan! Wait up!" You'd have a bruise there, for sure. You kept walking, drifting out from the middle of the group towards the edge as you came closer towards the entrance. Someone was blasting Extreme on a car stereo outside, the thud of bass a peaceful thing to hone in on to block out the chatter. You were so entranced by the music, you barely spotted the dark figure out of the corner of your eye.

There was a sudden sharp tug on your shirt collar, and you gasped as you were pulled back against the wall with a painful thud. You struggled, then stopped as a cold slush of fear flooded your gut and you found yourself looking into the green eyes of Patrick Hockstetter.

You'd heard a lot about the Bowers Gang since you arrived, and taken over the position as 'the new kid on the block.' On the very first day, a shy auburn-haired boy had told you to just stay as far away from them as you could, and to not make eye contact if you saw them. They sat at the back of every class they had, and even if there were children that needed seats, there would always be a row of four empty desks at the back for them if they bothered to turn up. The constant threats and rumours of what they were capable of nailed it home that you shouldn't try to bend their rules. Henry Bowers' fuse (amongst other things, according to the bathroom stall walls) was so short it was virtually nonexistent.

You cringed as you felt Patrick's long fingers snake up the back of your neck to tangle in the sensitive hairs there, a strange smile playing on his face. You glanced around in panic, unable to see the rest of the gang. His other hand slithered up your waist, the skin warm and clammy. A faint flush stained his cheeks, the heavy sound of his breathing loud enough to distract you from the rest of the hall. Nobody would step in to help. His fingernails scratched at the clasp of your bra and that was enough for you to land a mighty whack to his thigh with your bookbag, sprinting quickly out of his grasp and through the school entrance. Your head darted around as you turned left, blending in with the throng of students as you ran.

~

Your walk home was a nervous one, with constant checks over your shoulder. The artificially bright late-August sun bought a hint of cold in the air, and you felt goosebumps prickle on your arms as a breeze blew. Cars drove languidly up and down the block, trails of music hanging in the air like smoke. You winced as you remembered the press of Patrick's fingers on the nape of your neck, the way his knee had slid up between your legs. A dull ache flared in your hips at the thought, and you hissed in frustration. You'd heard Gretta Keene and Sarah Smith whispering about him in the cafeteria; apparently he went for girls _and_ boys. " _Anyone_ who touches him must be desperate. Besides being an absolute fucking _creep_ , he's like an STD playground," Gretta had muttered. Sarah had suggested that he probably had AIDS; Greta had snorted and replied, "I wouldn't be surprised, the fag."

You were so engrossed in your thoughts that you didn't notice the blue Trans-Am purr up next to you, Aerosmith rattling the speakers.

"Where you _going_ , girlie?"

Oh God. You didn't even have to guess who that voice belonged to. Glancing to the side, you felt your stomach turn over. Patrick was hanging out the window, elbows resting on the door. Swallowing, you looked forward and started picking up the pace.

"If you're not gonna answer me, we'll just follow you and make sure to visit you every damn day until you can't even walk to school," he continued, a smile in his voice.

"I'm going home," you replied shakily.

"And where's that?"

"It's where I live."

Patrick grimaced at your reply, and you heard Belch giggle. "Well, I guess we'll just have to find out."

It was useless trying to bore them. You were never going to get rid of them unless you suddenly developed super-speed. And you knew what he wanted. At least you wouldn't have to worry about your reputation being trashed, since you were so low on the social ladder that you may as well be known as the girl who fucked Patrick Hockstetter two weeks after joining. Your eyes slid over to the car as you turned the corner, adjusting the strap of your bag as you levelled your breathing, trying not to focus on the radio blaring lyrics of young lust. Home wasn't far now.

~

You walked down your driveway dejectedly, Patrick tailing you. He'd climbed out of the car to whistles from the rest of the gang - you'd shivered in repulsion as you heard Henry crow to him that he should fuck you until you were begging him to stop, then invite the rest of them over to finish off the job. Patrick grabbed you the second you came through the front door, rubbing all over you like a cat as you struggled to press and turn the key in the lock. You shoved him off, the word " _Wait_ ," frosting over as it came out of your mouth. He stood there obediently, excitement practically crackling off him. You noticed the tent in his jeans and swallowed. This really was happening.

Once you were both in your bedroom, door locked behind you, Patrick swooped down and scooped you over his shoulder, ignoring your yelp as he threw you on the bed. The mattress bounced as he jumped on you and his knees locked around your hips. He wordlessly started to scrabble at the fly of your jeans, fingers tearing at your belt in frustration as the buckle clinked and he pulled the leather apart with a _whssk_. You smacked his hands away as he tried to unbutton your fly. "I can do that myself," you muttered, unzipping your jeans and pulling them off to expose your legs. He narrowed his eyes as he stared at you - "Are you hurt?"

"What? No, it's my-" You stopped suddenly, heart skipping a beat. You'd forgotten about your period. The pale red smears of blood slithered out from the edges of your panties like worms. You stared at him as a lecherous grin spread over his face, hands sliding up to your thighs as he slowly parted them. Patrick bent down and pressed his nose into the fabric, inhaling, and you felt your mouth dry as you realised what he was planning. You saw him reach into his back pocket, and pull out a small rectangular object; he pressed a button, and a blade popped out. Panic hit you very hard as you started to kick to try and get it away, but he held you down, inching it closer until one side of the blade was under the waistband. He slowly turned it, and you bit your lip as you felt sharpness press into your skin. Patrick pulled the blade up carefully, cutting the fabric in two, humming in a way that made him sound vaguely demented. You saw a small red line bubble up on your trembling skin as he moved the knife over to your other leg, performing the same action with a _snikt!_

He peeled the fabric away with the same gentleness used to unwrap a very expensive gift, sheathing the blade of the knife absent-mindedly. You had never been this alert in your life as he glided chapped lips over your bloodied curls. You whimpered, and then jolted violently as his tongue slid hot over your clit. There was no precision or care in his technique - he was sloppy and fast and inexperienced, but his tongue was soaked with saliva and _warm_ , so so warm that you found yourself grabbing onto his dark mess of hair and tugging as a moan forced through your teeth. You wriggled back to sit up against the headboard with your knees up, head back as you sighed, eyes half-closed. Your jeans had been rubbing against you all day, and the friction had been building up to levels of agony. Patrick ate you out with a hunger reserved for starving animals, the sparks in your stomach kindling to a full-blown flame as you bucked your hips forwards and whined. Your shirt was stuck to you with sweat and you felt like you were going to cum or puke or cry pretty soon. You wondered what the girls at school would say if they saw you in bed with the town's most notorious sociopath. You felt your hand drift to your mouth as Patrick looked up at you suddenly, smears of red caked around his lips and teeth. His tongue looked like raw meat, glistening wetly with clotted blood. "Tastes _tangy_ ," he said in a voice deep and thick with arousal, your stomach churning.

( _They'd probably run screaming_ , your brain said.)

You sighed as you felt something push into you, then tensed at the feeling.

"We're going to play a game," he murmured suddenly, and you stared at him, shivering as his fingertips drew languid circles on your clit. "I'm going to fuck you with the handle of Henry's knife, and you're not going to cum, because if you do..." He giggled. "Your pussy will be ripped to ribbons."

You gripped his shoulder, a pleading look in your eyes as fear overtook you. "Patrick-"

"Shh," he said. He began to slowly push the handle in and out, the texture of the button rubbing over your g-spot. Patrick licked you again and all your tension melted away as you groaned, nails digging into his skin. You fought against the buildup of sensation, biting on your thumb to distract yourself. Your hands began to shake with fear as you knew you couldn't prolong yourself any longer, your hips jolting as your hand went from your mouth to your breast and squeezed. You thought of all the times you'd touched yourself in this exact position, imagining someone between your legs just like this. This was the good stuff. The real top-shelf stuff come to life. Just with a difference.

"Patrick," you said thickly, fear high in your voice. "P-Patrick, I'm going to cum, I- please- the _knife_ -" His eyes were smiling as he moved the handle faster, practically egging you on. Fine. You'd cum and accept that the only place you could get fucked in the future was from behind. There was a sudden flash of pain right at your entrance as Patrick yanked the knife from you so fast the blade wasn't even fully out, your muscles instead contracting around three of his fingers. You felt tears leak from your eyes as your body tensed and shuddered, a strangled yell and a stream of curses escaping you. You could hear him whispering ( _that's right baby, c'monc'monc'mon_ ) as he pushed himself up on one arm so you were eye level, gore staining his chin. Once you stopped shaking, he pulled his fingers from you and sucked them clean, once-gray rings sliding up and down the red skin.

Your return to school on Monday was relatively unsullied - you noticed a few people looking at you in a different way until Allie Thompson gently told you there was a tag poking out of your sweater. But when you passed Patrick in the hallway, he made sure to flash you the glint of the switchblade in his palm.


End file.
